


A Shot of Good Cheer

by Opy3332



Series: Four Shots [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opy3332/pseuds/Opy3332
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John celebrate their first Christmas together. Belongs in the 'Four Shots' series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shot of Good Cheer

John was sitting at the desk in his small office at the clinic, thumbing a text response to Sherlock as he ate a quick lunch between patients (leftover Thai appetizers and crisps—not his healthiest choice ever he’d admit). The date on his phone caught his eye for the second time that day—December 1st. It was creeping into the Christmas season. That thought, and the thought of the impending New Year, made John pause for a moment and sum up his life over the last few months. His life since meeting Sherlock. Some days it still amazed him how much had actually changed since that day he’d left his bedsit to meet Mycroft Holmes for an interview. There’d been a few ups and downs, but overall John wouldn’t trade it for the world. He’d been so lost, so alone, and Sherlock had fixed all of that. He owed him so much and John wanted to show him that.

 

 

If John let himself think about it, and he had over the last week or so, he was a little apprehensive about Christmas with Sherlock; well really just that it was their first Christmas. It seemed to hold a lot of decisions with it, a lot of weight. It would be the first time John will have spent the holidays with a significant other and he can’t help but wonder if he should be more worried about that. It was that time when they should be getting ready for the holiday. And, well, John was readying for it; Sherlock’s preferred method, as John was learning, was to ignore the holiday until the last possible moment. Or, perhaps completely—John still wasn’t quite sure.

Typically, John liked to lose himself in the holidays, swept up into good cheer, festive jumpers, and presents. It’d always been a time when he could ignore the bad things happening around him and simply partake in the joy. Sherlock was the antithesis to all of that however, and that made John slightly wary. John wondered if Sherlock would be okay having a party in the flat. John wondered if Sherlock would leave to spend time with his family for the holiday. John wondered if they should exchange gifts. John wondered if he should invite Harry over. John spent a lot of time wondering these days.

The weather, cold and dreary, was helping little to put him further into the mood for Christmas this year, and the flat was in no better shape. There wasn’t a present or decoration in sight. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson, as it turned out, had a few spare decorations stored down in apartment C that she offered to John one day on the stairs.

“We’d love that, Mrs. H.,” John responds, just as Sherlock had opened his mouth with his own retort. John elbows him. “I don’t have any, got rid of them all when I joined the army, and quite sure Sherlock here has never considered them.” The look on Sherlock’s face affirms John‘s statement, takes it a step further even as to why he would ever consider them. That he doesn’t rattle that off to Mrs. Hudson is practically a Christmas miracle unto itself. Or possibly the gentle reminder of John’s elbow against his sternum, one could never quite tell with Sherlock.

And so, later that afternoon, once Sherlock has disappeared for some thing or another, and John has busied himself as much as possible, he fetches a box from Mrs. H. filled with fairy lights, mistletoe, cranberry garlands, and miscellaneous decorations. There’s a small tree as well, just a table-sized one, but John places it on the coffee table and strings fairy lights and garlands around it. He doesn’t even want to think of attempting to make room for a full sized evergreen so is thankful for its size. And then there are still enough leftover lights that he covers the mantle as well. After he has hung the decorations and unearths his box of jumpers, John is at a loss. Just as he is contemplating making tea, Sherlock bursts through the door of the flat.

“Case, John!” He exclaims with a smile, already pulling John’s coat off the rack and preparing to toss it to him, completely oblivious to the changes in the flat. John is on his heels within the minute.

 

“Well that was boring,” Sherlock intones as they leave the scene a few hours later, climbing into a cab.

“Boring?” John asks. “Three parents all stealing the same toy from each other in attempt to have the best present under the tree, two of them ending up dead?”

“And you wonder why I call Christmas a waste of time. People like that.”

“That is not what Christmas is about, Sherlock.”

“Oh, god, John. You aren’t going to start on about the birth of a fictional Christ figure or possibly questionable antics of a rotund old man now, are you?”

“Well, not exactly. Santa’s fun if you’re a kid. And Mum tried to make us go to church some when we were small, but it didn’t really stick. Haven’t been in ages. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the season. It’s about friends, and family, and celebrating the goodness. That can be centered on religions if that’s your thing, but it can also just be about being human, about being happy.”

“And you wonder why both suicides and domestic murders increase this time of year, John, honestly. It’s that kind of drivel that causes it.”

“So you see no reason to celebrate and be happy this year?” John asks with a half smile. Sherlock’s lips turn up, very slightly, but he pointedly turns towards the window and stares out of the cab, not meeting John’s eyes. John still calls it a victory.

“On that note however, Mummy has insisted that I come for Boxing Day,” Sherlock announces a few moments later, surprising John out of his reverie.

“Oh. Well, okay,” John responds, startled and confused.

“I would like it. That is, if you have no other plans, I’d like it if you came with me. I think you’d quite like my father, and mummy as well.”

John stares at his profile for a minute, willing him to turn. He doesn’t.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He responds, because there really isn’t anything he’d like more.

“Good. I’m sure I can shock Mycroft into sending a car just by telling him that I am willingly attending. He usually has to drag me,” he tacks on with a smirk.

 

A case comes up on the twentieth. John’s been to the shops, has all his presents bought and wrapped. Despite how hard it was to find something for Sherlock, he’s glad for it now as they sleep little over the next handful of days. Three different robberies throughout London, not usually Lestrade’s division, but the oddity of it, and the random and unexplained death of one of the robbers at the third scene, means it is dropped on his desk. He calls Sherlock not minutes later. Everyone at the Yard wants this wrapped up quickly and done with before Christmas, so even Sally barely makes a comment when they step on the scene.

Sherlock spends almost twenty minutes at the scene—the jewelry store that was the third location. He is meticulous in a way that, though not unusual, seems a bit off to John. It takes him a moment to realize it is the quietness; not just Sally it seems is on their best behavior tonight. After that it is three days of chasing leads, both figuratively and literally. The odd connections between the robberies—each house had a poinsettia from the same florist, each family had a daughter between the ages of 5 and 7—are examined and investigated from every angle.

John has to work two shifts at the clinic during it and sleeps little, spending his off hours as both a veritable sounding board and a pseudo bodyguard for Sherlock as he works through the details. He is impressed as always as he watches him break down and solve the case. The robbers had been stashing their loot in the pots of poinsettias at the florist shop one of their wives owned. They’d managed to lose track of which poinsettias they’d used and had been breaking into homes that had a record of purchasing them, attempting to recover their items. The unfortunate gang member that was supposed to be keeping records was the one that had ended up dead at the jewelry store. One member had folded as soon as John had cornered him with his gun. He broke down into sobs about needing the money for Christmas presents and had quickly given up the names of his co-conspirators.

 

“Dull. Dull. Dull. What is it, John, with people and their presents? This is our second case in as many weeks centering on presents.”

“Parents want to give their kids the best Christmas they can I guess.”

“And instead create murder and mayhem. Not quite what Christmas is supposed to be about is it?”

John sighs. He agrees but doesn’t feel like getting into it right now—it is Christmas Eve and he hasn’t slept properly in almost a week. He merely nods as he leans his head against the window of the cab.

 

They sleep in on Christmas morning. Sherlock had finally crashed after the case was over the previous evening. They’d arrived home just as dusk had fallen and John had broken out a bottle of wine they’d sipped as Sherlock played a handful of Christmas tunes on his violin. There wasn’t any snow, but the fairy lights cast small sparkles around the flat and the smile never left John’s face. It had been a near perfect evening that concluded with a luxurious tumble into bed before they’d both fallen asleep, exhausted.

John makes a real breakfast in the morning, and Sherlock eats his with hardly a fuss. John can’t help but wonder if that is his Christmas present. On a whim John had bought a small bottle of peppermint liquor and he makes a batch of coffee to mix it in with after they’ve had some quiet time after their late breakfast, practically lunch really. He hands a distracted Sherlock a mug as he heads into the living room. He watches with a smile as Sherlock takes a rote drink and does a double take. Sherlock's lips wrap up in a small smile.

“John?” He asks with a lilt to his voice. John's smile widens.

“I can't make you one of those fancy peppermint lattes you like this time of year but did the best I could. It _is_ alcohol though so be careful,” he adds with a laugh.

“Haha,” Sherlock responds dryly but takes another quick sip to disguise his smile as he looks back to his work.

 

John had spent more time than he’d care to admit picking out Sherlock’s Christmas gifts. Despite feeling that he knew the man the best out of anyone, it was still a challenge.  Sherlock was not necessarily a materialistic man. He obviously liked fine clothing, but he seemed to have enough suits already and John correctly assumed he would not want one of the sort that John would pick. There was enough equipment around the house for his experiments at any given point so he was quite sure nothing was needed there. And John wanted to get him something that wasn’t necessarily a need, something that showed how much John appreciated everything Sherlock had done for him. But nothing too frivolous—puerility or whimsy were both surefire ways to immediately end up under Sherlock’s ire.

He’d started planning early though; jotting down ideas here and there in the first weeks of December, tucked away in his desk drawer at the clinic, where Sherlock couldn’t get to them. He’s well enough aware that he’d never be able to truly divert his attention if Sherlock was determined, but John was counting on Sherlock’s general obliviousness to social customs and all around disregard for the holiday to work in his favor.

John sets himself down in his chair with his doctored tea. “Aren’t you coming in?” He asks with a smile. Sherlock makes a slightly distracted sound but he can hear him shuffling his papers into a pile. There hadn’t been much to John’s small stash of gifts under their small tree; he’d picked out small things for Lestrade and Mrs. H as well as presents to take tomorrow for Sherlock’s parents, Mycroft, and Anthea. He’d purposely kept Sherlock’s at work once it was ready and, thanks to the last minute case, had been able to sneak it in yesterday without any notice or suspicion at all. He can tell the moment Sherlock notices it though, his steps slow and his mug shakes slightly.

The package isn’t overly large, but it is noticeable. John knew a simple wrapping job would be over too quickly for Sherlock, so he’d made a game out of it.

“Go ahead, open it.” He says with a smile.

Sherlock sets his mug down and reaches for the box. He eyes John for a moment, then the box, and then John again.

“No guesses, just open it!” John exclaims. With one last glance at John he rips the paper off and lifts the lid from the box. Sherlock pulls out the scarf to examine it and watches as the piece of paper flutters to the floor. He picks it up and reads it with a frown.

“A treasure hunt, John?” He drawls out. John smiles. He may sound snarky but he’s playing along and that is almost more than John had hoped for. He’d only done three clues, knowing even that was probably pushing both his luck and his abilities.

Sherlock reads the scrap out loud, “ _I should match your other prized possession well and come in handy on a walk to somewhere special._ Well no question there.”

John watches as he heads over to his coat and checks the pockets. He pulls an envelope out of the inside breast pocket. His eyes light up slightly as he pulls the tickets out. 

“You had such a good time at the symphony when we went. And this violinist is apparently pretty famous.”

“Pretty famous, John? If he were merely ‘pretty famous’ then I would merely be intelligent. Hardly likely,” he says with a snort.

“Well, however you put it, thought it would be a good chance to go see him.”

Sherlock nods and reads the slip that was inside the envelope as well. “ _While not Angelo’s or the usual start to an evening, this still provides both sometimes but generally just holds the typical contents for ours. Still will, despite the new look._ ”

“New look?” Sherlock mouths to himself, obviously trying to figure out what it is he’s missed and how. He turns into the kitchen and stares for a moment. John barely holds back his smile as Sherlock’s eyes dart around before he finally, hesitantly opens the fridge. John’s not only scrubbed the entire thing, but he’s clearly put all the old, and some new, experiments and body parts into neatly labeled containers that are on also neatly labeled shelves marked ‘Sherlock’. There is food on the other shelves, including a fresh baked pie.

“I thought we’d done enough fighting over food versus body parts,” John says with a smile as he walks fully into the kitchen. “Now neither of us will get confused hopefully. And I may have added a few things from your wish list in the process.”

Sherlock seems to have lost his words as he glances up at John, a look of surprise still on his face. It is warring with awe and a hint of what John wants to hope is love. He tears his eyes from John’s and plucks the last piece of paper from atop the container holding fresh lungs and a stomach from a sheep.

 “ _Perhaps a traditional end to the night wouldn’t be too normal for us though._ Crassness, John? Really?”

John was glad today that Sherlock was oblivious to menial reality. He hadn’t been sure if he’d be able to pull off getting the new sheets onto the bed or not, but as soon as he’d eaten breakfast he’d delved into the papers he had on the table and had ignored John for almost an hour before John had made his presence known. It had been enough time to get the new, ridiculously expensive Italian linen sheets he’d purchased on their bed. It had taken him nearly two weeks and one overly embarrassing and awkward conversation with Anthea, and therefore by default Mycroft, to decide on and locate these particular sheets. Delved into his savings as well. Between the cases and the few hours at the clinic, and shared expenses, he’d been faring alright lately and figured it was safe enough.

And the next hour and a half they spend on them makes it all worth it. They are soft in a way John had never realized he needed and the color, Midnight Slate the company had claimed, looks stark against Sherlock’s skin and their hands entwined on it take John’s breath away.

 

They laze about the rest of the day and Sherlock complains only once about his boredom. John marches him back into the bedroom at that point and doesn’t let him out for another hour, once he’s worn off some more of his restlessness and sworn not to complain about boredom the rest of the evening. He was currently wrapped around John when he extracts the promise though, and Sherlock attempts to argue exhortation.

John smirks. “That’s fine. I’ll just hop up and head back out into the—” he is cut off by Sherlock as he flips him over and back onto the bed.

“These sheets were so worth it,” John says with a sigh as Sherlock settles on top of him. The smirk he receives in return tells him Sherlock more than agrees with him.

 

Later that evening, after John has made a makeshift dinner and they’re lounging around, Sherlock speaks up.

“Now, it may seem like I didn’t get you anything…”

“Really, Sherlock, it’s fine, it wasn’t necessary,” John interrupts. Sherlock pins him with a glare that he can’t quite decipher.

“I did get you something. Were you not expecting reciprocation?”

“That wasn’t what I meant, I just…”

“Yes. Well, your gift, if you decide you want it, is at the estate waiting for our arrival tomorrow.”

“Of course I want it, Sherlock. Thank you.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet. I could have wrapped up a diseased liver for all you know.”

“I’m sure you’d have some wonderful reasoning behind giving it to me if you had,” John says with a laugh. “And I technically did that for you, so don’t knock it.”

 

 

As they ready themselves the next morning, John isn’t sure what to expect of the Holmes estate and its residents. Trying to picture the couple that could have not only produced but also raised both Sherlock and Mycroft is intimidating at the least, terrifying at the worst. Sherlock has rarely spoken of them, though John doesn’t seem to think it is intentional, which makes him at least not specifically fear them or any explicit outcome of the day. That doesn’t mean he isn’t nervous, especially with the number of times Sherlock insists upon using the word estate. Memories of the small house in their council estate growing up has him feeling distinctly out of place before they’ve even arrived. John is pretty sure nothing would surprise him at this point, and is expecting a manor of some kind that would look as if it belonged to landed gentry or amongst the scenes in some Jane Austen adaptation.

It is an hour almost in the car. Roomy at least, though that still doesn’t make up for the fact that he is riding in the back with both Sherlock and Mycroft. They’d chosen opposite rows and John had shifted in next to Sherlock and across from Mycroft. Anthea, ubiquitous as always, is in the front next to the driver. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft have exchanged a single word, and John had given up his attempts after a tense few minutes in which he’d received several pointed glances from each brother. Anthea had Starbucks cups in hand when she’d arrived though, so John is at least caffeinated enough to be putting up with it all.

 

He hates to admit he is a bit surprised by what is there. The estate, while large, is rambling and homey rather than stuffy. It reminds John slightly of their flat at Baker Street and he smiles to himself when he realizes that Sherlock’s messiness and unique decorating manner must be an inherited trait. In similar vein, their parents are warm and open and they tut over John and Anthea, who is apparently staying as well, though also apparently already known to both Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. John feels immediately welcome and at home.

There is much shuffling about and settling in and it is loving and welcoming in a quiet way that still seems to overwhelm Sherlock, if the looks he keeps sending John are indicative of anything. They don’t wait very long before diving into the presents. John and Sherlock had added their handful to the already existing pile under the tree and they all settle into a room that John can’t decide whether it is a second living room or a study.

Sherlock had offered to simply sign his name to the gifts he had, but John wanted to do something little of his own, so had small ones for Anthea, Mycroft, and both Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. He’d been surprised actually that Sherlock even bothered with gifts, but he’d waved his hand nonchalantly and said he always stole Anthea away for a few hours and had her do it for him.

“Even her own gift?” John had asked, knowing he’d seen one with her name on it.

“Yes, though I threw something extra in there this year,” Sherlock had responded with a smirk.

John receives two jumpers, of much nicer quality than any he currently owns, and some odd coffee accouterments that he smiles automatically at, despite his confusion. Sherlock too receives clothing items, more sets of nearly identical bespoke suits. Anthea finally goes to open her own gift from Sherlock and her obviously staged smile morphs into first confusion and then faint aggravated warmth. There is a small set of pearl earrings and an official Scrabble dictionary. John quirks his eyebrow at Sherlock, insisting that he get an explanation later.

Sherlock has given John a new lap desk for his laptop, for which he is grateful, he really uses that in his chair much too often, and a lab coat with his name stitched on it, with ‘Doc’ underneath it as well. John is overwhelmed by it. Not only the subtle hint to their meeting, but to him it represents Sherlock’s acceptance of his job and his need to stay in touch with that side of himself. He kisses him hard but briefly in thanks.

There is still one large item under the tree and Sherlock pushes John towards it. It is awkwardly and inefficiently wrapped and so John simply tears the paper off the top. Underneath is a small espresso machine. It is obviously used and not nearly as fancy as anything he’d used at Starbucks, but it looks clean and like it will fit right into the décor at Bake Street—he wouldn’t quite call it antique but it was a near thing.

“Now you can make me that peppermint latte,” Sherlock says with a smile and John laughs in return.

 

Dinner is at three and it looks to be a large affair. There is only to be the six of them, but Sherlock’s parents have cooked enough for twice that at least. The presents have all been put away and they are gathering around the table. Sherlock’s mother prattles on almost constantly and John can’t help but wonder how such an outgoing woman could have raised the boys that she did. She isn’t flighty or vapid—just keeps a steady stream of conversation going.

“I hope this wasn’t too odd for you, we always eat about this time. The husband and I always go into town for the Christmas Panto they hold this evening, so we like to be done in time to make an event out of it.”

“It’s fine. Haven’t had tradition enough for it to be different,” John replies frankly.

“Well I just want you to know we’re all very happy that you’re here. We’re happy enough for you and Sherlock in general, everyone knows we weren’t sure he’d ever find someone who would put up with him, bless his odd little heart. But we’re even more tickled that you came up with him. Not always easy to walk into the lion’s den, eh?”

John smiles in a way he hope isn’t too awkward. He, too is thankful that he found Sherlock and that they are serious enough for this to not be too odd, but isn’t sure he wants to have that discussion yet, and with his mother of all things.

 

They’re back home before it is fully evening, stuffed full of turkey, mince meat pies, sweet potatoes, creamed corn, fruit, rolls, and pies. He’d dozed against Sherlock’s shoulder on the car ride home. Now John is puttering around, attempting to clear space for the espresso machine. It isn’t large, but space is at a premium between actual kitchen appliances and Sherlock’s mess of experiments and case notes.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock says suddenly from behind him.

John jumps slightly and turns around to face him.

“For what? I should be saying thank you to you yet again—you’re gifts were far better than mine.”

“John I may be an expert on practically everything, but in relationships I am not. But I am at least confident enough to know that it isn’t supposed to be a competition.”

John sighs and walks into the living room. “You’re right; I didn’t mean it quite like that. Just…thank you. The last few months have been incredible and I owe that to you. I don’t know where I’d be if not for meeting you, that life was killing me.”

“I think we would have met somehow, even if under slightly different circumstances.”

“Yes. But would we have ended up here, like this?” John can’t help but ask as he stands next to Sherlock, staring at the tree, and leans against him lightly.

“I could only hope so,” Sherlock says, surprisingly subdued, before tugging him softly into the bedroom and onto the bed.

‘Happy Christmas, indeed’ John thought to himself with a smile.


End file.
